Midnight Crew: Adopt
by TnT6713
Summary: In the idyllic town of Alternia lives a group of well-to-do men and women who call themselves The Midnight Crew. This is a year in the lives of their children, struggling to make it through high school alive. (I'm not tagging the characters because there are so many of them and that would be ridiculous but expect it to follow canon for the most part.)


**Doc Scratch: Introduce**

Your name is Doc Scratch. You live in the town of Alternia with your two children, Kanaya and Gamzee. You are the manager at a local bank and you often spend your time socializing with your employees: Spades Slick, Diamonds Droog, Hearts Boxcars, Clubs Deuce, and Snowman Serket-Pyrope. You consider yourself a very elegant man and a particularly excellent host.

What will you do?

**Doc: Fondly regard a photo on the mantelpiece**

Ah, yes. This old thing. One of your favorites, actually. A few years back, the bank attempted a day for its employees to bring their children to work. It could have run much more smoothly than it did, but you managed to control everyone well enough by the end of the day to take this picture.

You stand in the very center of the group—as you should—and the bank's sharp logo gleams in the background. If you hadn't been there, you wouldn't know the picture was taken outdoors; the lighting is almost too artificial and with so many people piled onto the small steps in front of the entrance, the door itself is completely hidden. You are almost surprised that, as short as you are, you haven't been hidden behind the rest of your friends. Then again, you've always had a certain glow about you, an electric flare of elegance that subtly screams of authority.

You've never been hidden.

On your left, Kanaya smiles stiffly at the camera. She towers over you—both your children do—long and lean and built on simplistic elegance. Her short brown hair accentuates her angular features, the same color as her skin. Just moments before, she had been chatting animatedly with Vriska Serket-Pyrope. They were so young back then. Kanaya is sixteen now; she's about to be a junior at Alternia High.

Gamzee, on your right, isn't even facing the camera. His deep purple hair looks atrocious from the back, and you know he's deep in conversation with one of the Boxcars boys. From the angle, though, it's hard to tell which. You remember his hair used to be a nice dark blonde. You suppose he decided he no longer enjoyed being civilized, because he came home from school one day with a box of purple hair dye and never looked back. He could use a bit of sun, just to bring some color back into is cheeks, but the purple does contrast quite beautifully against the almost ghostlike paleness of his skin. He'll be turning eighteen soon. You grimace at the thought.

Behind Kanaya, on the right of the frame, are the Serket-Pyrope ladies: Snowman, Vriska, and Terezi. The smile on Snowman's face is far from an accurate representation of her visage, which usually takes the form of a sharp frown or a pointed glare, generally directed at Slick. She's also not wearing that dark, wide-brimmed hat she always wears. Coincidentally, that happened to be the first time you had ever seen her without it. She is, to this day, the only woman you know who can pull off the bald look. She wears it almost as well as you do. Vriska, however, still carries her signature smirk, as if to say, "I'm just so much better than you." Which she isn't. But it's very cute of her to think so. You would almost admire her, if she didn't make your blood curdle with contempt. The electric blue streaks in her long, blonde hair perfectly match the color of her lipstick, which you still don't understand why Snowman allows her to wear. But you can't really say anything about it, because she isn't your child. Thankfully.

Terezi smiles toothily, turned slightly away from the camera, as if she doesn't know where it is. Well, you suppose she didn't. You find yourself at a loss for words; not because you have been rendered speechless, but because the girl—aside from her blindness—is utterly unremarkable.

In front of them is the Clubs family: Deuce, Sollux, and Nepeta. Deuce is a funny little man, young and round and bright. It's almost pathetic. He smiles from the bottom of the frame, an arm around each of his children. It's not often he does something right, but you have to admit he did a fair job in raising the two of them on his own. It doesn't, however, take away from his lack of finesse in business. You still don't know why he works for you anyway, but you don't have the heart to fire him. Nepeta grins goofily at the camera, scraggly dark blonde hair poking out from under that hat she always wears, the blue one with the cat ears. She couldn't have been older than twelve when the picture was taken. She seems so small compared to the rest of them, almost delicate.

Sollux, on the other hand, is anything but. He's tall and lanky and you can see him rolling his eyes through those 3-D glasses, the old paper kind with red and blue lenses. You can almost still hear him lisping, "Thith ith tho thtupid!" as the camera flashed. You were never fond of him. Luckily, neither of your children ever took much interest in him. It's more than you can say, though, for the Droog children, next to Gamzee on the other side of the stairs.

Aradia smiles fondly at Sollux from between her sister and father, bright eyes shining with curiosity and wonder. She had, by that point, not filled into the womanly curves you have recently seen her don, but the rest of her seems to have changed very little, from her smooth, rounded face to her long, dark curls. They, in contrast to her elder sister's thick brown waves, are tinted with red that almost matches the blood of the scrapes on her knees, which shine through the holes in her tattered skirt. Feferi, who stands beside Aradia toward the center of the frame, beams with a giddy glow that seems to radiate from somewhere behind her gleaming teeth all the way out to Diamonds, his face cracked with a smile that has broken through his traditionally aggravated scowl. Droog—pretentious as he is—sends his girls to the allegedly prestigious Alternia Preparatory School, as opposed to Alternia High like the rest of you neighborhood parents. You have often wondered how he can afford the steep tuition on a shoddy mobster—erm, banker's salary, but you chalk it up to a large inheritance and leave well alone. It's not like it's any of your business anyway.

The familiar face of Karkat Slick shouts at you from the bottom of the frame, in front of the Droogs. His turtleneck-covered arms are folded tightly across his chest and he gives the camera an angry pout through the scraggly orange locks falling into his eyes. While the other families in the portrait are at least standing together, displaying signs of contentedness and togetherness, the Slicks do not even feign amicability or good terms. Spades resides in the very corner of the frame, as far away from the rest of you as he can be, and the only prominent feature of his—aside from the determined glower—is the large, then-fresh scar across his eye. Eridan, the elder of the Slick children, has the hood of his too-large purple cloak turned up against the wind—or perhaps just to block out any association to his family. Feferi's glow bounces off the back of his thick, gelled-up hair, almost—but not quite—surrounding him with a halo of positivity to contrast the bigoted sneer on his lips. His thick-framed glasses are too big for his small, pointed, Italian face. This picture was taken before he bleached the front part of his hair. For some reason, the complete darkness encompassing his already dark features seems to feel so much less out of place than it ought to.

Hearts Boxcars and his sons stand in the very back of the group, arranged by weight in descending order. Hearts is on the left—a burly block of muscle, cushioned by a thick layer of fat—Equius—solid muscle; he spends his days lifting weights and playing for Alternia High's football team; his dreadlocks pulled back in an incidental ponytail, broken sunglasses perched precariously on the bridge of his sharp nose—is in the center, and Tavros—entirely bone as pictured, which, in comparison to his elder brother, must have led to some unfortunate self-esteem issues, from which you suppose the decision to groom his hair into a short Mohawk stemmed—is on the right. They are both frequent guests in your household; Gamzee is quite fond of the Boxcars boys.

You stop admiring the picture. The school year is set to begin any day now. You realize with some incredulity that you have yet to take your children to the store for supplies. How foolish of you. Then again, you suppose you were always meant to take them today. Any other day would have been premature.

**Doc: Summon your children**

"Kanaya!" you call. "Gamzee!"

You watch as Kanaya pokes her head in from outside. Funny, you don't remember having left the door open. That knowledge must be hidden behind one of the few blocks in your memory. You will have to be more attentive in the future.

"Yes, Dad?"

"Where's your brother? We must buy school things."

"I'm right motherfuckin' here, man."

You turn toward the sound and, surely enough, Gamzee has stumbled up the stairs from the basement and is now leaning in the doorway, making halfhearted attempts to puff his wild hair out of his eyes.

Kanaya scowls. You pretend not to notice.

"Let's go," you nod. "I want to make sure you two are completely prepared for anything and everything, as I always am."

Gamzee, grinning, saunters past Kanaya and accidentally nudges her.

"My bad, lil' sis."

She rolls her eyes and follows him out to the car.

**Doc: Be Spades Slick**

You are now Spades Slick. You work for the, uh… the bank? Yeah, sure. You'll go with that. You have two sons, Karkat and Prince of the Doucheb—er, Eridan. Right.

Anyway, your name is Spades Slick, and you are a good fucking parent. If your kids fuck up, they get to see your stabs. Then they don't fuck up no more. Handy little trick, ain't it? You wonder why your friends don't do the same.

That's right, because they can't be trusted to do any god damn thing right. Deuce, for example, wouldn't know proper discipline if it stabbed him in the gut repeatedly. His kids are… whatever. You see them occasionally, 'cause you guess Sollux is good friends with Karkat. The little one, though, weirds you the fuck out. She's got some cat fetish or something, which you find disgusting and just plain wrong, man. At least your boys ain't so soft. Well, Eridan runs around with his stupid fuckin' cape, pretendin' he's a wizard or some pansy-ass shit like that.

And then Karkat has his dumb little romantic comedies. But, you mean, even that's better than Eridan. After all, Eridan's gonna be a fuckin' junior. He should know by now that magic ain't real. Man, you bet it wouldn't stop him pretending anyway.

"Dad!" Karkat blunders down the stairs, clutching a copy of one 'a his favorite romcoms. Well, you think it's his favorite. He watches it a lot. Or maybe that's the other one? Man, you don't fuckin' know. They're all the same, anyway.

"What?"

"I got a text from Gamzee. He said his dad is taking him and Kanaya to get notebooks and shit. Are we gonna go do that, or will I have to take notes on my hand and write in my own fucking blood?"

You shrug. "Yeah, sure. Does Eridan need shit, too?"

"Obviously!" Eridan shouts, following Karkat's path down the stairs. Man, you fuckin' hate when he does that whole eavesdroppin' bullshit. He doesn't own the fuckin' place. He hastily ties on that stupid cape and god damn, why does he even wear that thing? Actually, you decide you don't wanna know.

"You're wearing that stupid cape again?" Karkat sneers. That's your boy.

Eridan flips up his collar, haughtily sticking up his nose. "Yeah, I fuckin' am. Got a problem?"

Karkat rolls his eyes. "Who are you trying to impress? Sollux?"

"I—What? Sollux? No! She ain't Sollux, she's—"

"She?"

"She's nobody, okay? Let it fuckin' go."

"Nobody?" Karkat grins. "So that's why you're blushing so hard you're almost purple."

"Shut up, Karcrab. I'll kick your fuckin' ass."

You wonder if it's time to interject. After all, their school things ain't gonna buy themselves. Or, you could just show 'em your stabs. Shuts 'em right up.

"Yeah, fuckass, I'd like to see you tr—"

"Last one in the car gets to see my stabs!"

They both look up suddenly, like they'd forgotten you're there. It happens a lot; you stopped being bothered by it years ago.

There's a shared mumble of, "Sorry, Dad," and suddenly they're both pushing each other out the front door, both struggling to be the better son and avoid the threat of your stabs.

Parenting at its fucking finest.

You follow them out the door, swiftly locking it behind you. When you turn back around, you see the boys nudging each other, both refusing to loosen their grip on the passenger side door of your sleek black Lexus. Fuckin' classy-ass car for a fuckin' classy-ass man. And his two kids, occasionally.

By the time you slide into the driver's seat, Karkat is grinning like a smug little bastard in the seat beside you. In the rearview mirror, you can see Eridan angrily rubbing his jaw, where you assume Karkat had punched him. Karkat was right; that cape is fuckin' ridiculous.

The key goes into the ignition. You back out of the driveway. Turn left. Turn right. Three more blocks. Parking lot. The key comes out of the ignition.

"We're here."

Three doors open, three doors close. The boys run into the store, eager to see their friends, eager to spend your money. You pull out your phone and fire a quick text to your pal, Droog.

3: At the store buying school shit for the boys. Scratch & his kids are here. Care to join?

: My girls have already started school, Slick. I have no reason to join you.

You scowl at his timely response. Of course. How could you have forgotten that he sends his kids to that fancy-ass private school? It's not like he talks about it all the fuckin' time. Oh, wait.

3: My bad.

: Yes.

Whatever. You stick your phone back into your pocket. He's a pretentious ass anyway.

**Spades: Be Gamzee**

You are now Gamzee Scratch. Yes. Hell yes. Hell motherfuckin' yes. So much motherfuckin' yes, it's like a shitstorm of whimsical confirmation, with the chucklevoodoos comin' together to sing a fuckin' madrigal chorus of _yes_. You're just cruisin' around, looking at notebooks—all the motherfuckin' colors, man—when you hear some crabby little voice go, "Where the fuck is he?"

Grinning, you bounce toward the sound. "Karkat! What the motherfuck is up, bro?" You ruffle his hair, momentarily entranced by it. You've always wondered how his bright orange locks were natural, yet your own deep purple mop of hair came from a box. The color's just so motherfuckin' beautiful; you can't help but stop and stare.

He laughs, grumpily tugging your hand away. He hates his hair. "Nothing. Dad made me drag along my dickass brother, though."

You look past him—which ain't no fuckin' problem, considerin' you're just so motherfuckin' tall and shit—and see Eridan attempting to chat up Kanaya. Boy, do you love your sister; she ain't havin' none of his bullshit.

"Hey, Kan, you, uh, you wanna go out sometime?" he says. You can hear that funny little thing he does with his w's, as if he's saying the letter twice.

"Not particularly," she replies, trying to be all polite and shit. "I'm kind of seeing Vriska, at the moment."

You stop listening after he chortles something about those plans "most definitely falling through," and turn your attention back to your best motherfuckin' friend—well, second best. Your first best has gotta be Tavbro fuckin' Boxcars. Man, you just cannot get enough of that motherfuckin' kid. He's gonna be a Freshman soon and, man, it just makes you so fuckin' happy, y'know? He's gonna be in high school with the rest of you motherfuckers. You don't even care that your best bud Tavbro is only fourteen 'cause, man, you fuckin' love that kid. Seriously, everything's better when he's around. It's like you're this gangly fuckin' prism, all triangular and shit, and he's this beam of light and when you come together, shit's like bam! Motherfuckin' rainbows everywhere.

"Yeah, man," you say, "Eri-bro's a fuckin' toolbag."

And that gets Karkat laughing, which gets you laughing, and soon the whole motherfuckin' store's lookin' at you funny, some tall-ass purple prophet and his crabby little orange bud.

You end up leaving the store with an armful of notebooks and folders and pens—one of every color—and Karbro gets the black notebooks and the red pens and Kanaya gets some stripey and polka-dotty and flowery patterned notebooks and you'll get a text in a few hours from Karkat saying they forgot Eridan at the store.

You laugh yourself to sleep tonight.

This school year's gonna be fuckin' great.


End file.
